Worrying, as I listened
to rain take care of itself
outside my walls and curtained windows,
about money,

I was awake,
but I lay still. I’d like to say
that rain dropped down from the indifferent universe,
but, though

the sound of rain couldn’t hear me,
I seemed to matter,
I, myself, seemed
to grow the wealth I needed, while on healthy trees

money gave off
an air of,
or gave away,
dignity—

did it matter which? I’d like to say
that trees, in a dream,
took me back to when a forest was freedom,
to where poached deer guilty

of living were consumed
in peace, to where
deer were beautiful, and that’s that,
but, though

it couldn’t see itself, the sound of rain
clearly
dropped down,
and so I rose.

– Douglas Nordfors